Blood Calling A Hate to Love Fated Mate Romance Avowed By The Moonlight

✨✨✨

Crimson Hollow Pack – One Week Before the Full Moon

The cold bit through Elara's threadbare dress as the wind howled between the crooked wooden cabins of Crimson Hollow. Her bare feet were numb, pressed into the hard, frozen earth. Behind her, the packhouse glowed with warmth and laughter-none of it meant for her.

She pulled her thin shawl tighter around her shoulders, her arms trembling. Not from the cold, but from the sharp, fresh sting of the whip that had lashed her back only an hour ago.

She hadn't bowed low enough to Luna Cressa. Again.

The pain didn't shock her anymore. It was expected. Predictable.

At eighteen, Elara had mastered the art of moving quietly, of becoming invisible, of swallowing down screams until they curdled inside her. She had no family, no friends. Just the silver crescent birthmark on her inner wrist-a soft, glimmering curve that pulsed faintly beneath her skin.

It had appeared the night she was found near the riverbank as a baby-alone, wailing beneath the full moon. The pack had taken her in only because the former Alpha had a rare moment of compassion. But compassion had long since died with him, and so had any shred of mercy toward the orphan girl with the strange mark.

The pack believed it was a curse.

Some whispered she was a child of darkness, born of rogue blood or worse-an omen that had brought bad luck and barren seasons. Others just saw her as convenient labor. She cleaned. She cooked. She kept to the shadows.

And when they needed someone to hurt, she was there too.

"Girl!" a voice barked behind her. She stiffened.

It was Garrick, the Beta's son-bulky, cruel, and bored.

She turned slowly, head bowed. "Yes?"

"Luna Cressa wants you in the kitchen. And be quick about it. She says if the Lycan King sees dirt on the tables during the Moon Ceremony, she'll have your hide."

Her heart jumped.

The Lycan King?

She'd heard rumors. The King of all Lycans was visiting their territory for the first time in decades. Kael Thorne. A monster wrapped in skin. A ruler so powerful he could shift with a thought and command entire armies with a snarl.

"Move it," Garrick spat, shoving her toward the house.

She stumbled forward, catching herself just before her knees hit the ground. The faint snickers of nearby wolves echoed in her ears.

Elara entered the packhouse, the warmth slamming into her like a cruel joke. She ignored the stares, the whispers, the way the pups watched her like she wasn't even human. She was a ghost here. A shadow that cleaned up messes and then disappeared.

As she scrubbed the wooden counters in the kitchen, the scent of roasting meat and herbs made her stomach twist. She hadn't eaten all day. They hadn't let her. They said she didn't deserve to eat until her work was done.

Hours passed. Her hands turned raw from scouring pots, her back ached, and her eyes blurred from exhaustion. Still, she kept working.

And then she heard it. Hooves. Boots. The ground itself seemed to hush.

They had arrived.

The Lycan King and his warriors.

Even the air shifted.

Panic filled the house. Wolves ran back and forth. Trays were dropped. Orders were barked. No one wanted to be the reason the King grew angry.

Elara ducked behind the open pantry door, trying to stay invisible.

She peeked out-just once.